


Some Might Say

by claralikescarbonara



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1990s, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Angst, Barista!Dean, Canonical Character Death, Developing Relationship, Fluff, I'll add more tags as I think of them, M/M, Minor Character Death, Porn With Plot, Work In Progress, homeless!Cas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-14 01:47:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claralikescarbonara/pseuds/claralikescarbonara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Some might say<br/>We will find a brighter day"</p>
<p>Dean Winchester has worked at his father's coffee shop for as long as he can remember. The daily grind - pun intended. It's all he's ever known. Until he offers a troubled homeless man a place to stay for the night, a simple act of charity which sets in motion a chain of events that will alter the course of both their lives forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Might Say

Dean Winchester and The Impala Café have been pretty much inseparable for as long as Dean can remember. Literally, his earliest memory is of his mother bouncing his baby brother on her knee while his father – John Winchester, a man whose life seems to have been one long love affair with coffee – serves her a steaming cup of espresso with a flourish. The rock music blaring over the sound system adds to the cheerfully chaotic atmosphere. Dean can’t be more than four or five, but he’s listening with fascination as John explains to him how the place has been in the family for generations.

“And one day, this – all of this – will be yours,” he adds, offering Dean a sip of his coffee. It’s scalding hot and too bitter for Dean’s taste, but he forces a smile, acting for all the world as if it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.

His first memory of his mother also happens to be his last – she dies when Dean’s too young to really understand what’s happening. If John wasn’t already a functioning workaholic, he throws himself into his work like never before, leaving little time for anything else. But, as Dean’s about to discover when he starts school, having a dad who gives him an endless supply of free drinks at one of the coolest coffee houses in town is a pretty good way to make friends. For the first few years of his life, the café is heaven. Everything changes when, shortly after his thirteenth birthday, he hears the words he’s been dreading.

“It’s about time you started pulling your weight around here,” his father tells him in a tone that Dean knows better than to argue with. Next thing he knows, he’s being forced into an apron and shown how to operate coffee machines almost as big as him. Somehow it’s not as fun when he’s the other side of the counter, but he’ll grin and bear it like he’s always done, because it’s _the family business_ and he’d put up with a lot worse than a few impatient customers if it would make his dad proud. The daily grind – pun intended. It’s all he’s ever known.

**November 1996**

“It’s him again.”

Those are the first words that Dean hears when he drags himself into work that morning. John barely even acknowledges his son, instead glaring out the window, eyes narrowed. Dean doesn’t even have to ask who he’s talking about. Huddled by the doorway, shivering under what looks like at least fifty layers of clothing is a dishevelled and clearly homeless man. Most likely Dean wouldn’t have even noticed him if it hadn’t been for the fact that he’d been in the exact same place yesterday, much to his dad’s displeasure. If he’s back again today, he’s either brave, stupid or most likely both.

“What’s your problem with him anyway?” Charlie sighs as she brushes past them. “He’s not doing anybody any harm by sitting there. Besides, he’s probably got nowhere else to go.”

Charlie Bradbury has been one of Dean’s best friends since middle school, and has worked at the Impala almost as long as he has. She’s also quite possibly the only person he’s ever met who isn’t scared of his dad.

“Yeah, as hilarious as it was to watch you chasing him off armed with a tea towel yesterday, I have to agree with Charlie,” Dean admits.

John merely grunts in response. “He’s ruinin’ our vibe.”

Dean shoots an incredulous look at his father. “We… have a _vibe?”_

“Just - get rid of him, will you? I can’t deal with him today. I’ve got about a million other things I should be doing right now.” He barely even finishes his sentence before he’s gone to the storeroom to do God knows what.

-

He looks like any hint of colour has been drained from him, leaving only shades of grey. Clothes grey with dust and dirt, long dark hair hopelessly tangled – even his skin looks grey and weathered. The guy doesn’t turn around when Dean finally opens the door and ventures out into the cold, doesn’t even look up until Dean’s practically standing over him, casting an imposing shadow across his face. He’s immediately struck by how _blue_ his eyes are. Dean’s not usually one to notice things like that, but… damn. Nobody should have eyes that blue, he thinks to himself.

“Spare some change, sir?” the homeless guy asks, looking up at him hopefully.

Dean sighs. “Listen, you can’t keep coming back here, man. My dad’ll gank you if he sees you again.”

Right on cue, John’s back behind the counter, fixing the two of them with an icy stare. The guy turns around to consider him for a moment before turning his attention back to Dean. “Him? No. He’s a pussycat compared with my old man,” he mutters.

For a second there’s something dark in his eyes, but he doesn’t say any more and Dean’s not going to ask him to elaborate, so there’s a moment of awkward silence before he asks, “Why’d you keep coming back here anyway?”

He shrugs. “I like it here.” The corner of his mouth twitches slightly, almost as if he’s forgotten how to smile. “I like the paintings.”

The paintings have been there for years – colourful African landscapes with herds of impalas. Yes, it’s a little obvious, a little cheesy, but even John has to admit they’re a nice touch, and they get the occasional compliment from the customers. Still, Dean’s not going to get sidetracked, especially not with his dad watching.  “Yeah, well – this ain’t an art gallery,” he says bluntly. “So either buy something or piss off.”

The other man looks affronted, but finally accepts defeat and is gone without another word. The look on his face as he turns to leave makes Dean feel like an unbelievable asshole, but the proud little smile on his dad’s face soon takes care of that.

-

The weather gets decidedly worse as the day drags on – not long after Dean comes back inside it starts raining aggressively. Almost instantly, they’re inundated with customers looking for shelter, meaning he barely gets another moment to himself until after closing time. It’s one of those rare occasions when his dad’s got somewhere else to be and trusts him to lock up on his own. He’s just about ready to head home when he hears a scuffling noise coming from out the back. That’s nothing new – they’re used to stray cats rifling through the trash cans in the dingy little alley behind the café – but the noise is accompanied by a loud, hacking cough and Dean’s sure as hell never heard a cat make that noise.

Dean can barely see because of the freezing rain, but there’s no doubting it’s the same guy huddled against the wall. Same dirty trench coat, same tangled mop of hair. For a moment Dean contemplates whether or not to go back inside and forget he saw him – he’s already feeling shitty enough about what happened earlier – but the decision’s made for him when the guy catches sight of him staring.

“Look, I don’t want any trouble,” he says to Dean in between coughs, raising his hands in mock surrender.

“Neither do I! I just – “ Dean struggles to come up with a response that doesn’t make him sound like even more of a dick. “What are you doing? You sleep out here?”

The guy gives him a withering look that could rival the one his dad gives him when he’s being especially stupid. “No, I’m staying at the fucking Ritz. What do you think?”

“But you – you’ll freeze your ass off – “

“You didn’t seem to care earlier.” He coughs again, harder this time.

“I’m sorry, man. I just – my dad was being an ass this morning. I know - that’s no excuse. _I’m_ an ass. Okay? Can we just… start over?”

There’s a lengthy silence and Dean wonders if the guy’s going to answer or not, before he’s seized by another violent coughing fit which ends with him doubled over on the ground. Once he’s finished, Dean extends a hand to him. He grips it tight with his own filthy hands and hauls himself to his feet.

“So,” Dean says, trying to sound casual, “You got a name or what?”

The guy stares at Dean with those impossibly blue eyes as if to say, _‘What kind of stupid question is that?’_ “Of course I _got a name,”_ he replies. “It’s - ” Another cough. “It’s Castiel.”

“Well, _Castiel,_ you can’t stay out here. You’re already getting sick. Come on. Come back to my apartment. You can sleep on my couch or something.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “But – why?”

“I don’t know, man. Call it a guilty conscience,” Dean sighs, beckoning for Castiel to follow him. “I’m Dean, by the way.”

Behind Castiel’s mess of hair, Dean thinks he sees him smile for the first time. “Uh… thank you, Dean,” he says disbelievingly, following Dean’s lead.

“No problem. Just… don’t hug me, okay? At least not until you’ve had a shower.”

**Author's Note:**

> So this is kind of my first Destiel thing. Thanks to Fred (who doesn't have an account on here but can be found over at unamused-crisp.tumblr.com) for beta-ing it. I'll try and update as often as I can (when I'm not being a lazy little shit). Feedback is always appreciated :)


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